


Roasted Chestnuts and Half a Pint

by Arithanas



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Christmas Eve, F/M, First Meetings, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold weather is great way to meet a special someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roasted Chestnuts and Half a Pint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cacao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cacao/gifts).



> La Befana got a bit lost, but she arrived and she remembered your name!
> 
> Please, have the most awesome 2016!

Porthos groaned and kicked a stone.

Sleet was falling over Paris that Christmas Eve and this threadbare doublet barely protected his wide frame from the wind and the cold. Cursing his luck, Porthos fit his hat and walked the treacherous streets. Such was his luck to be alone and without almost any coin in his pockets. Aramis took some time way and was spending the worst weeks of winter with his family―a cousin, if Porthos recalled correctly. Athos, for once, had a stroke of luck and was spending the night in Treville’s house, warm and well-feed. For a moment, Porthos thought of abusing his friend’s abode and his servant, but he was not that kind of desperate yet.

Porthos thought of finding a place where he could be warm enough and, taking his capital into account, the best choice was a church. Churches, Porthos had noticed, are always warm and no one cares if you got a spot on a pew as long as the hat was not in his owner’s head. If Porthos kept his seat in a dark corner, they usually believe he’s a very regretful and repentant sinner who was hesitant on the verge of confession and let him alone with his troubled soul. His soul, however, was never so troubled to stop his eyes, same eyes that wandered from a lovely butcher’s daughter to the young soldier’s widow.

Clearly, any church was a good place to waste some time.

Porthos sat and crossed his hands, the Church was getting crowded and soon there were people even in his secluded pew. Of course, those people wanted to secure their spot for Shepherd's Mass. Well, the best laid plans…

At the very least, Porthos couldn’t complaint about the cold anymore, and that was a good thing, because those who came into the church snow-covered proclaimed a drop in temperature.

Porthos did his best to show devotion, but it was pretty difficult with so many pious women displaying their best garments for the occasion. His ears never learned to follow Latin, so Porthos fixed his eyes in a devote lady with all the traces of being married. Married women knew their Mass even if they didn’t know their Latin. By Consecration, that woman turned her head and watched Porthos with incensed eyes.

That was a half a pint of woman, slender and malnourished, Porthos didn’t find her to be a danger and, instead of averting his eyes, he waved his hello. The woman turned his head again, to the altar this time. Her back was as stiff as the boards of the pews. Porthos smiled, very pleased with his mischief.

She turned her head again during Communion, Porthos blew her a kiss and she reacted like Judah himself had made her an unsuitable proposal.

By the final blessings, the woman turned her head around the third time and pointed at herself, as if she couldn’t believe the signals were for her. Porthos just nodded slowly, in all cordiality. He expected nothing from her, and if that pleased her, then it was a good Christmas gift for her old soul.

People started to go home after the _Ite, missa est_. Porthos had no hurry, he could smell those heretics who sell finger food at the door of the church and, since he had not a coin to spare, he preferred to spent a bit more in the warmth of the church, but he didn’t reckon that women come to meet him.

“Monsieur,” she called with stern expression. “Your brazen attitude mortifies me…”

That little discourse put Porthos on guard, but he chose to play it nice.

“If I have offended you, Madame, I apologize,” Porthos said, his fingers toyed with his moustache, “but this lonely soldier found a nice figure to lay his eyes and got carried away. Madame! You should be more careful with your beauty!”

“This beauty is not mine to partake, sir,” she said and sat by Porthos’ side. “I am married woman.”

“And friendships are forbidden to a married woman?” Porthos insisted, and got promptly silenced by the sacristan, “The friendship of a soldier who could die in the next campaign?”

“If friendship is what you offer, sir, you can call me Madame Coquenard…”

Porthos said his name and bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compromise, and then he rose from his pew and offered his arm to accompany Madame Coquenard home. She, very hesitantly, put her hand on that arm and let him escort her out of the church while telling him her address. They walked among the street vendors and no one had time to spare on them. Madame Coquenard felt safer and she even commanded Porthos to buy her a bag of roasted chestnuts as a “small Christmas treat”.

Porthos obeyed her command and, inadvertently, pocketed the change.

Madame Coquenard didn’t mention the difference; she kept her hands around the bag, warming her hands, until they reached the door of her house. Her hand signaled her residence and Porthos cocked his hat in farewell before she pulled the sleeve of his doublet. Porthos saw the way that woman offered him the roasted chestnuts. Her offer impressed him and he couldn’t refuse without looking like a perfect brute, but he neither could accept without some small gesture of reciprocity no mattered how symbolical. His eyes watched around and all he could find among the unwashed chaos of the _Rue aux Ours_ was a pot with snow-covered hellebore blossoms.

“Madame,” Porthos said, extending his hand toward the pots to pluck one dark hellebore, “Please accept this sober tribute to your great virtues and keep it as a promise to get you hyacinths at the earliest date.”

“Oh!” Madame Coquenard trembled as Porthos, gallantly and boldly, put the dark and cold flower in a lock of her hair, over her ear.

Porthos was not sure if the woman shivered from passion or cold, but that didn’t hinder him to put his hand inside the little bag and grab as many chestnuts as it was possible; those same chestnuts were promptly stuffed in his pocket. His mother blessed him with big hands and the result was a pretty empty bag in his wake, but the woman didn’t notice the lack of weight, her gaunt cheeks were tinted with a very pleasant blush.

Taking advantage of the situation, Porthos guided the woman to the door. She almost floated to the small step before solid double-leaf oak door under the lintel.

“Will I see you again, sir, by the time hyacinths are in bloom?”

Porthos was not worried by his promise. Hyacinths were pretty abundant in the Royal gardens; there will never be any trouble to pluck some of those, if even Aramis could get away with the thievery.

“You have my word, Madame.”

“Well,” she let out a sigh full of promises, “Merry Christmas, sir…”

“Merry to you too, Madame,” Porthos accompanied his wishes with a kiss on that small and fragile hand.

Porthos waited until she closed the door behind her. It was just politeness and the chestnuts in his pocket keep his hands warm. Once the sound of the latch announced the woman was safe in her home, Porthos started his way to _Rue du Vieux-Colombier_.

It was not a bad Christmas after all; he had roasted chestnuts and half a pint.

Porthos couldn’t wait to make the witty remark and laugh of his own joke.


End file.
